


Caught

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't fight John's body and his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught

A/N: This is a fill for a [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=34055511#t34055511). Anon asked for Sherlock trying not to come, because if he can avoid orgasm, he retains some semblance of control.

 ****

 

John had no idea why Sherlock wasn’t touching himself. Before his eyes, Sherlock’s cock bobbed freely and rhythmically as he rode John with apparent enthusiasm. John’s own cock was enjoying the deliberate contractions of Sherlock’s sphincter muscles around it. To his mind, that untouched erection was turning their perfectly interlocking arrangement into a puzzle with a missing piece. John reached for it, but received a slap on the back of his hand for his trouble.

“Don’t touch it!” Sherlock spat.

John rolled his eyes. “This again.”

Things had been going quite well, Sherlock thought, and then John had to spoil it by trying to make him lose control. Even after all this time, John still didn’t understand, though Sherlock had to admit that it might be easier to understand if Sherlock could only find a way to articulate his feelings. _Having_ feelings was not his strong suit, let alone expressing them. But until he could, John would continue to think this was some sort of game, and behave accordingly.

Sherlock had spent the last twenty minutes trying every trick in the book and employing all his charms to get John to finish, but to his chagrin, despite the grinding, moaning, twisting, and displaying, John had the stamina of a bull, and refused to come until Sherlock had. Now Sherlock was taut as a bowstring, from his clenched jaw to his curled toes, and though he was somewhat lacking in dignity -- sweating like a bastard and panting desperately -- he was _still in control_.

John took hold of Sherlock’s hips and worked him back and forth on his cock. Everywhere Sherlock felt it, it was a little different: stretching here, pressing there, tugging someplace else. But it was all serving to fill him up, test his physical endurance, his will.

John’s voice was sweet, but tinged with impatience. “I’m getting tired. It’s time for you to come now. What do you need to finish? Do you need a little swat on the arse?” John tapped Sherlock on the behind with the flat of his hand, a shadow of his intention.

Up to now, Sherlock had been squeezing his pelvic floor muscles to keep from coming, and that had been sufficient. Now he would have to work harder to stave it off. With his thumb and two fingers, he pinched his cock just behind the head, hard, until the urge to come dissipated. He felt good about this; he was back in control.

“Just go John, finish. Just come, and leave me alone.”

“But then I wouldn’t feel your arsehole spasm around my cock. Why would you deny me that?” John planted his feet flat on the bed and began thrusting mercilessly up into Sherlock. This was more difficult to deal with than John just trying to jerk him off. John touching his cock made only his cock feel good, but John jabbing his prostate sent spikes of pleasure deep into his belly and thighs.

“I don’t like it,” Sherlock finally confessed. Oh, John felt so good inside him, filled him up so nicely. Why couldn’t John be like him, and just be satisfied with that?

“I’ll make you like it,” John rasped. He would never understand.

For a while the room was filled with the strained groans and frustrated grunts of two men who were each trying to make the other come without falling over the precipice themselves. Sherlock writhed, searching for a way not to get more pleasure out of it, but less. He found that if he tilted in an exact manner, he could use the angle to rub the underside of John’s cock in just the right way. But he could ignore the complaints of his overworked quadriceps for only so long, and finally bellowed, “John, stop being an idiot!”

John screamed back, “Why are you doing this?” Then he quieted, reached out for the nape of Sherlock’s neck, pulled him closer. He continued in a whisper, “Hm? Why are you pretending that you don’t have a greedy little arsehole that craves cock?”

“Please,” Sherlock murmurred back. “Fuck me, but don’t make me come.”

John let go of Sherlock’s neck, throwing out his hands in exasperation. “Do you know how daft that sounds? If you don’t want to come, then don’t swan around going ‘Ooh, I accidentally tripped and fell on John’s cock again! How clumsy of me!’”

Sherlock ignored John’s mockery. He might be tired himself, but between the two of them, he was the superior specimen of physical fitness. Soon John’s muscles would give out, and he’d be forced to concede.

But when John began to lag, he needed merely to change things up to recover some of his strength. With skill borne of practice, he pulled Sherlock close to him once more and rolled them both over, putting Sherlock on his back.

John was driving into him hard, now, clumsy with fatigue but no less determined. Sherlock had both hands on John’s arse, begging to be filled, but he was still here, in his mind, in control.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock begged. “Please, fuck me blind, fuck me within an inch of my life, but don’t make me come.”

John ignored him. Now he could trap his hand between their bodies, and stroke Sherlock without him being able to interfere. He fisted Sherlock’s cock and pulled mercilessly, but Sherlock could almost ignore the sensation, it was so lacking in finesse. Until John’s thumb brushed the very tip of his cock, where it was wet and slippery. Suddenly the whole situation was tipped on its side. The sensation was fresh and effortless and exquisite. Sherlock could swear he felt each ridge of John’s fingerprint. He made a new noise, of pleasure instead of frustration and exertion.

John grinned. “Yes? You like it when I rub your little piss-slit?” Sweat dripped from his forehead to the tips of his hair and then down onto Sherlock, who was trembling but determined. Sherlock’s lip was between his teeth. He looked close, so close, but the effect of John’s trick was diminishing.

“That’s it. No more teasing,” John grunted, taking his hand away. “I’m making you come now.”

That same hand now closed on Sherlock’s throat. It took a try or two to get his thumb and fingers on just the right spots, what with Sherlock bucking and struggling underneath him, feistier than ever now. But with effort, he pressed on Sherlock’s windpipe, felt the thumping pulse beneath his fingers, and gradually cut off his air.

For several long seconds, John continued to apply the gentle but unstoppable manual strength that Sherlock at once loved him and hated him for. Lightheaded and panicking, Sherlock was forced to focus all his attention on oxygen, and had to give up concentrating on not coming. With that hand on his throat, he no longer had a choice: he convulsed and tried to gasp, on fire with pleasure and hot shame. He couldn’t fight John’s body and his own. He couldn’t resist the dark euphoria of properly administered asphyxiation. He had failed. John held onto Sherlock’s windpipe until a hot spurt tickled the skin of their bellies.

Each pulse of come ached and burned as it slipped free. Gasping and jerking, Sherlock continued to come for what felt like minutes, and John kept pumping him through it, hitting his prostate on every stroke and prolonging it. As long as he kept coming, John kept fucking him, and so long as John kept fucking him, his orgasm continued. He feared they would be caught forever in this endless loop of ecstasy and humiliation. As the jolts and tremors slowly subsided, he wanted nothing more than to gather his orgasm all up and put it back in himself. He wanted to die.

As soon as John pulled out his softening, satisfied cock, Sherlock turned over and curled up in a ball, covering his face with his arms. He was completely silent, squeezing tears of shame from the corners of both eyes. It killed him that John had this power over him. And it didn’t make it any easier to know that he would always come back for more.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft, bemused. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock twitched as if to shake it off. “It wasn’t a competition. It’s not as though you _lost_ anything.”

“I begged you,” Sherlock whispered. “I begged and you ignored it. How could you humiliate me?”

“How could you think you were humiliated? You know it turns me on to watch you come. There’s nothing humiliating about that. I think you’re beautiful. And you’d be even more beautiful if you didn’t fight it.”

Sherlock sneered beneath his arms. Who cared about beautiful when his dignity was at stake?

“Hey,” John said. “Hey. If it’s so important to you, how about this: Best of three?”

Sherlock turned and looked over his shoulder.


End file.
